The wind in the trees causes them to creak in their trunks,
Like the old, splintered wood of a dock during a storm.
Waves crashing against the moors like the leaves against my window pane,
Swishing and moaning with the wind.
The air itself is gray in early morning,
Thee dusty dark green of the trees and their whispering tops fades through...
Sometimes I long for the evergreen of New England,
The dark, cool forests and old stone walls.
On occasion I pine for the pines in the mountains,
Spicy vanilla floating through the air and the clean scent of snow on the wind.
Then there are the times I deeply miss the shade trees,
The big, old wise oaks and stately elms which keep the grass cool on hot, hazy summer days.
In the Spring and Fall, whether floating apple blossoms or deeply russet fruits heavy on the boughs,
Apple trees in their orchards call my name.
In winter it's the Solstice, Holiday Trees and the deep smell of wintergreen and fragrant boughs;
The sharp shiny dark and prick of holly bushes, with their crimson berries popping.